


mother dearest

by bunshima



Series: of bruised knees and cigarettes - ushioi oneshots [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Conservative Family Beliefs, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentioned domestic abuse, No Dialogue, Oneshot, Post-Canon, character exploration, domestic abuse tag is only there bc toorus mom and ushis (sadly very likely) worst case scenarios, oikawa and ushijimas dad are both heavily mentioned, ushijima cries a lot and gets angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunshima/pseuds/bunshima
Summary: Mama, why do you treat your own baby boy like dirt?





	

**Author's Note:**

> hoh boy so this is a lot of feels and its literally like 3 in the morning but im so emotional about my son
> 
> disclaimer: heavily based on personal headcanons and rp interactions (this one specifically initially being the aftermath of a thread), fuq beta readers i don need em

When he gets home, Wakatoshi is soaked with sweat. Perhaps sprinting from the spot where he met  _ him _ all the way back to his house wasn't the best idea. Especially not with a plethora of problems, of both physical and mental nature. In other news, their  **last** meeting left him feeling empty,  _ slightly _ aroused and god knows what else. He still can’t believe he said that. _ “Perhaps it’s better if I leave you alone” my goddamn ass _ , he thinks, jaw clenching. It was the worst decision he ever got to make, but… it’s for the best. Tooru got hurt. His mother makes an attempt to have some small talk with him, but Wakatoshi has to think about different things. the fact that he's sweat-drenched makes it easy to excuse himself from a horribly awkward soon-to-be-conversation, makes him seem like he had just returned from a run (which isn't that far off, actually).  _ Wakatoshi needs a goddamn shower _ . he's glad that Tooru hasn't left any marks on him like he did with him, because he wouldn't know how he could possibly explain himself without giving his mother the dirty and disgusting details (he doesn't like lying to her either way).

 

Hastily he fetches everything he needs from his room before he jumps into one of two bathroom's this household has, armed with with towels, a pair of baggy sweats and a holey t-shirt. The door lock jumps into the door frame and finally, after a moment of silence, he lets out a long, drawn out sigh that ends with a high-pitched sob. There's finally a chance for him to get rid of all these negative things inside of him and he feels how the bottomless pitfall in his chest begins to dissolve with every quiet sob and sniffle while he undresses.

 

_ It feels good _ . 

 

Palms clutch onto the sink, and Wakatoshi gets to catch a first glimpse at … well, whatever  _ this mess _ is (it sure as hell isn't himself; he's  **not** like this, not weak nor a pathetic crybaby). What the mirror shows him surprises the young man more than it should, his thoughts automatically going to “what would mother think?”.  _ Her reaction would be justified _ , he thinks,  _ she didn't raise me to be like this _ . 

 

The more he looks at himself, the hotter burns the hate for his own feelings. _ It’s disgusting, _ **_those people_ ** _ aren’t in their right minds _ , his mother has told him. Now, he believes it, applies it to himself.

 

Scorching hot tears sting in his eyes and obscure his vision, but that's good. That way he doesn't have to look himself anymore. He’s disgusted and ashamed of himself, but for some godforsaken reason, Wakatoshi’s mind wanders, goes back to  **Tooru** , how warm his thin build felt against his despite it’s natural cold, how gently he would hold his hand as he told him  _ vile and obscene things _ , how  _ good _ kissing him felt….  **_Shit_ ** .

 

Eyes squeeze shut, forcing big tears to finally overflow, and a pitiful wail tears itself from the confining cavity that is Wakatoshi’s throat. Tooru is his first love, and it hurts; he’s  **hurting** like he never has before. However, he lets himself be weak and vulnerable, he hates how great it feels to let out pent up emotion…  _ at first _ . Relief ends up becoming  _ something emotionally crippling _ (he can't put his finger on what it really is); Wakatoshi doesn't mean to and yet, a particularly desperate (and pathetic) whimper leaves him. Never in his life has he hoped more for his mother to ignore him, not even acknowledging that there's something wrong with him. He's never been religious but he prays to any random deity that's willing to listen that his mother stays downstairs, because Wakatoshi Ushijima has officially found himself quietly sobbing another guy’s name with utter desperation.  _ Mama Ushijima wouldn't take kindly to that _ .

 

It takes him a few minutes to stop, and by the end of that over-dramatic fit of his, he feels absolutely horrible. His trembling knows no bounds; he's cold, sad and really needs his shower now. _ At  least the unpleasant and bothering feeling of arousal is finally gone, though _ .

 

The hole in his chest keeps burning, bitter bile feeling scorchingly hot inside his belly, as he steps into the shower and turns it on, turning and turning the knob till the water reaches nearly hellish temperatures. That’s how he likes it. It has a pleasant effect on that gaping hole in his midriff, causes it not to hurt quite as much anymore. After adjusting the showerhead a little, Wakatoshi settles on the warm tiles, knees tucked to his chest. His skin reddens under the hot water’s relentless assault; he’s sure it’s giving him burns, but he doesn’t care. In fact, Wakatoshi couldn’t care less. _ He needs this to forget _ , but deep down, he knows he’ll never forget him; affections sit deep, deeper than his disgust for himself.

 

Love doesn’t hurt, _ it’s the falling in love that does _ . Both learned that the hard way. 

 

Tooru Oikawa, who can’t let himself care about anyone due to trust issues and his self hate caused by a monster that doesn’t even deserve to be called a mother.

 

Wakatoshi Ushijima, who is inept at expressing his feelings after his own mother had told him  **_“honey, boys don’t cry”_ ** when he was only a little boy.

 

And it’s simply such an unfortunate fit, right? Everything about them, nearly all their traits, contradicts one another; opposites do attract after all. Where Tooru is sharp edges and ribs clearly visible against bruised porcelain, Wakatoshi is gentle curves and toned muscles subtly bulging underneath sun kissed skin. Delicate fingers would meet thick ones, finding that they fit perfectly into the spaces in between them. Tooru’s cold, slender frame pressing into Wakatoshi’s warm, wide one, asking for love and comfort, because no one else would be able to give it, unable to provide the shelter he never knew he craved. Even their voices are nearly exact opposites; one being cheery and light, but perfectly capable of becoming sharp, the other heavy and cold,  _ almost sorrowful _ , but able to utter words with unexpected gentleness and compassion.

 

Once they meet again, they’ll be forced to take care of this mess. Wakatoshi doesn’t know what will hit him when he meets Tooru again, about six months after the last time they’ve kissed, at the same college,  _ in the same dorm _ . Fate seems to have taken a liking to playing with their feelings, leaving them vulnerable, much unlike their usual selves.

  
  
  


In the end, Wakatoshi continues on with his shower, thoroughly cleaning himself after a moment of desperation as if he tries to clean the bad feelings, oozing from his pores like disgusting pus, off his body. When he finally leaves the cramped confines of the upstairs bathroom, completely dressed and not as miserable looking anymore, he finds that he has the house to himself. Something inside him relaxes and he feels more at ease, _like he can be himself_. So that’s what he does.

 

After fetching his supplies and sketchbook, Wakatoshi retreats into the huge garden, settling underneath the big cherry tree on the household’s property. When he was ten, auntie Ushijima always used to tell him that her grandfather planted it when he was his age; it shows how long this house has been in this family’s hands already, how many generations of children have played in this garden, but now, it’s only him. It feels weird to carry a family’s expectations for a whole generations on your shoulders, to be burdened with such pressure, especially as a teenager (it smothers him, threatening to break his back in two).

 

He thinks and thinks, continues to do so as he doodles away his sorrow with seemingly random things that come to mind and he’s taken aback when he notices that all he has been drawing is…  _ Tooru _ . It makes him want to burn his sketchbook in their old irori, the sunken fireplace his family uses for festive occasions only, so his mother may never find it. Wakatoshi doesn’t know what she will do after she somehow finds out that her well-raised son fell for a wild boy with a smile so crooked, making his heart jump, and worthless pride, unique to only him. 

 

Wakatoshi has never been fond of her ideals, seemingly rubbing him the wrong way subconsciously, never wanted to find a beautiful and modest wife with child-bearing hips once he turned eighteen.  _ It’s too early _ , he had told her, but mother dearest can’t take a no, doesn’t want to understand that he prefers to concern himself with different things than marriage, working and fathering children. She doesn’t even know that he likes to draw still; there’s no way he would tell her. The fear that she will get angry at him for having such a for a man inappropriate hobby is ever so present. His father wouldn’t have done this. His father wouldn’t pressure him like this, try to force him into marriage at a relatively young age, when all he wants to do is hang out with his friends like boys his age. Wakatoshi was stupid to believe his mother when she said that his father is a bad influence and that he shouldn’t see or even speak to him anymore after he divorced her and moved out. Then, it hits him all at once again: Tooru, his father, his home that doesn’t feel like one.  _ His father would understand, right? _ He wouldn’t agree with this; there’s no way he would.

 

Tears begin to tumble down flushed cheeks yet again, wetting the paper in his lap and causing lead to blur in moisture. And suddenly, Wakatoshi grows angry. Whether it is directed at himself, Tooru or even his mother is unclear but he has the strong, violent urge to throw every single one of his drawings into the koi pond, tear them apart one by one, watch them turn as black as coal as he burns them at the fireplace. But deep down, he knows, is aware that this wouldn’t make him happy. It’d make his mother happy; that’s what he wants to do. But the older he gets, the bigger the expectations grow and the less likely it is that Mother Ushijima will appreciate her only son.

 

_ Forgive me, mother dearest, I’m sorry that I can’t make you proud. _

 

It’s clear by now, Wakatoshi Ushijima is deadly afraid of his own mother by now, for she hates what he is and cannot change because it is not a choice.

 

He wants to move out; it’s been his greatest wish since he returned home after graduation. He misses Tooru terribly, came to the horrible, horrible realization that he loves him so deeply that it’ll make his mother disown him. Wakatoshi wants to move in with _his crush_. He’s dreamed about it once — His dreams are getting ahead of themselves, but to be honest… a dream has made him feel more comfortable than his own supposed home. That showcases how cold his domestic environment is.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading !!! (feedback is greatly appreciated as always)


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